Most people today know Sankhu for its Salinadi Mela. Every winter, the month-long festival draws hundreds of devotees who walk barefoot along the Shalinadi riverbanks, braving the cold for spiritual purification and the story of Swasthani. The rest of the year, though, Sankhu returns to its stillness, its old stone alleys echoing only the footsteps of daily life. From the outside, it appears to be just another old Newar town. But I’ve always felt differently.
I live just seven kilometres away, and growing up, I couldn’t help but be curious about this quiet place. Its faded gates, its crumbling rest houses, its layered architecture, something about it seemed to whisper stories I didn’t yet understand. I knew there was more to Sankhu than the mela.
And then I met Prakash Man Shrestha “Swako”, a local historian who has spent much of his life collecting those whispers. Sitting with him was like peeling back centuries.
"Sankhu wasn’t just a town," he told me. "It was a mahanagar, a royal city with conch-shaped planning, royal orders, its gates, water systems, and trade routes. Most people don’t realise this." The town was once so self-sufficient that it was called Sankharapur Mahanagar in the old sloka that marks its establishment in the year Kaligad Sambat 1801.
Legend has it that the goddess Vajrayogini cleaved through the Manichuda hill to drain a lake and make Sankhu habitable, similar to Manjushri draining the Kathmandu Valley. She instructed her priest, Jogdev, and the first king, Sankhadev, to build the town as a conch shell. This conch shape isn’t symbolic; it’s urban planning. Roads spiral inwards. Eight city gates once guarded the town, each with a unique cultural function: one to carry out the dead, another to bring in brides, another for chariot processions.
"These weren’t just gates," Shrestha explained. "They told you the story of a town that knew where things belonged, where life came in, where it exited, and how divinity was welcomed."
What fascinated me most was Sankhu’s role in trade. Today, it's hard to imagine, but centuries ago, it was a vital link between Nepal and Tibet. Long before there were paved roads or cross-border highways, traders walked the route from Kathmandu to Kuti, passing through Siphal, Bhimale, Khursanibari, and Sankhu. From there, it was a seven-day journey to Tibet, with Sankhu as the last valley town before the mountain climb.
Shrestha described how Sankhu’s traders took crops, metal goods and crafts northward and brought back gold, mountain goat, sheep, salt, and wool.
That legacy isn’t just preserved in old chronicles; it lives in the memories of people like Prakash Man Swako. “My father used to trade with Tibet,” he told me. “He sold flour, chillies, hog plum and even champuti, the seed of hog plum, something we as kids used to casually play with. ” He still keeps the vansar, a handwritten inventory of the goods his father traded. “From Tibet, we received nun sun ra un: salt, gold, and wool.”
This trade continued through the Malla period. For generations, Sankhu's economy flourished, and many families established themselves in Tibetan market towns. Their descendants still live there today.
The Vajrayogini temple, now the spiritual heart of Sankhu, has its roots in even older traditions. Before the temple, there was a vihara, possibly Guvihar, on the same Manichuda hill. There are caves nearby, carved into stone, where monks once meditated.
Shrestha said nine viharas once existed in Sankhu, including Padmagiri, Siddikula, and Gunakar Mahaviharas. Today, their names survive mostly in oral traditions and place names like Baha and Bahi in each tole. “The physical structures may be gone, but they still live in rituals,” he said.
Even now, the priest of the Vajrayogini temple must live like a monk during his tenure, abstaining from family life, residing in a house near the temple, and following strict codes. Three times a day, a wooden gong is beaten, just like in old Buddhist monasteries. In a valley where much has changed, Sankhu has somehow kept a piece of that ancient rhythm.
Sankhu has suffered. The 2015 earthquake was devastating. Many of its iconic architectural structures collapsed. Though the municipality provided some rebuilding support, most homeowners could only afford to replicate the facade. Inside, concrete replaced breathable mud and stone.
Still, even in its damaged form, Sankhu retains its soul. There are five gates still standing: Bhau Dhwakha, Mhyamachaa Dhwakha, Dhunlla Dhwakha, Mahadyo Dhwakha, and Naari Dhwakha, each connected to ritual, each a doorway into a living story.
Perhaps the most moving part of my journey into Sankhu’s past is realising that it’s not entirely past. Yes, the grand trade route is gone. The viharas are mostly memories. The royal seat has been replaced by a municipal building. But the spirit? That’s very much alive.
“It’s a living city”, said Shrestha. “Maybe not as loud as it once was. But very much alive.”
It’s easy to overlook Sankhu when you're on your way to Sali Nadi Mela. But this quiet little town has seen gods walk, kings rule, and crops carried on the backs of men who vanished into the mist toward Tibet. Sankhu is not just a place. It's a pulse beneath the valley's skin.